Fucked

When I can withstand the way too-frequent five-minute commercial breaks, I enjoy listening to Thom Hartmann. He's knowledgeable and his moral compass unerringly hews to due north. You know, like those guys on the other side of the aisle.

A few days ago, he was reporting on the social media posts consumed by anti-vaxxers yet frequently posted by entities hostile to the United States. For the anti-vaxxers, the source of the post doesn't matter. As long as it reinforces their beliefs it is all to the good. 

Even as the Republicans all around them are hospitalized and die.

And I'm fine with that. To paraphrase a quote attributed to nineteenth-century Army general Philip Sheridan, the only good Republican is a dead Republican.

Hartmann read one post in particular that stopped me in my tracks, at least metaphorically speaking. (I was actually behind the wheel of my beloved 2015 Honda Accord Sport at the time.)

It alleged that the COVID vaccine alters human DNA to the point where those injected are no longer considered human and as a consequence, forfeit their human rights. This was given as reason number-one for the epidemic of government-led gun seizures we see happening in every nook and cranny of the United States.

Funny how often things lead to (supply name of sitting Democratic president here) gonna take away your guns. 

I'm not sure when we became so stupid, but I'm pretty sure it aligns with the popular acceptance of social media posts as an unswerving source of truth. Because with all the empirical evidence one needs to supply before positioning a post to go viral, it's no wonder, is it?

I again suggest a chain is only as strong as its weakest link. Translated, this means we're fucked. Hopefully it'll happen quickly.

Happy?

I call them Justinites. Have since spring. They're the folk who have alternately clamored, begged, whined and demanded that Justin Fields start as quarterback for the Chicago Bears since the day he was drafted.

They are the folk who ran roughshod over the considered acquisition of respected veteran quarterback Andy Dalton, treating him like sewage in the process.

What they lack in things like perspective and understanding they make up for in volume and persistence. Without a shred of evidence to back their perspective, they relentlessly push their witless agenda.

They remind me of the folk who back a certain ex-president: noisy and stupid.

This shouldn't be construed as a rip in any way, shape or form of Justin Fields. Hell, I feel sorry for the guy. He's a young man forced to shoulder the unconsidered expectations of a delusional and desperate fanbase thirsting for a messiah.

And Fields is their mirage. A mirage of NFL contention and Super Bowl trophies.

Amidst their delusions, the Justinites ignore the realities of the unproven coach. The pathetic offensive line. And this weird sense of voodoo that hovers over the team and prevents them from ever enjoying a functional offense.

Building a football team is tough. I get it. Whereas other major sports field teams ranging from five to nine players, football has eleven—just on offense. There's another eleven on defense. Plus kickers. And holders. And punt returners and kick-off returners and special teams and....

That's a lot of personnel to assemble. And manage. Contracts to juggle. And beyond that, one has to make sure they're fairly compatible, healthy and, of course, talented. What's more, ideally the offense and the defense are being constructed simultaneously.

Whew. Can I take a break now?

Via Dalton's banged-up knee, the Justinites got their wish yesterday. Their savior would start an NFL game. Can we just skip the rest of the season and anoint the Bears as Super Bowl champions please?

There were just a few problems. The offensive line still sucked. (You saw Myles Garrett and Jadeveon Clowney objectify the Bears' line and turn them into turnstiles, right?)

And Matt Nagy was still calling plays. Hired as an offensive whiz kid, he continually bungled the play-calling and failed to make any useful adjustments, piloting this creaking, wheezing car into a swamp of ineptness.

Overlooked in the carnage is that young Fields, effectively playing behind a sheet of Kleenex, wasn't injured in any of the nine sacks he endured.

(It's a minor miracle, really.)

He may one day be a fine NFL quarterback. Fine as in Ryan Tannehill or fine as in Patrick Mahomes. No one knows for sure.

What is known is that the Bears aren't getting any better. Yeah, they've had some bad luck. But gifted with a fourth season as coach, it's becoming increasingly clear Nagy is merely the Bears' latest example of the Peter Principle.

And you Justinites? A quarterback does not a team make. 

 

Gone Fishin'

Yep. I went fishin'. For two weeks. Just jumped in the car and drove.

It having been twenty-two years since I last went on an extended pleasure trip, you could say I was due.

And oh my God was I.

Getting out of the municipality and the state I call home was a gift. It was like sex. Yes, having a place to call home is not to be underestimated, but...

Seeing new places, driving unfamiliar roads and meeting new people is immensely refreshing. Invigorating.

Restored, revitalized and renewed, I can again begin to supply The Square Peg with the sort of sparkling content you, dear reader, have come to expect.

And if not that, something to at least fill the time until your favorite binge-able TV show returns from a commercial break.

Be well. And thanks for visiting.

What's My Problem, Anyway?

It is said we are a product of our times. Or depending on your perspective, a victim. I plead guilty.

I grew up in the nation's second or third-largest city, depending on how you quantify that. But we were, essentially, invisible. New York had Broadway and Manhattan, and Los Angeles had Hollywood and nice weather. 

Chicago was flat and...well, O'Hare was the world's busiest airport. Yay. 

But we who lived there felt it was a jewel. We were fiercely proud and became defensive when it was attacked. 

And even beyond that, I was influenced by a parent. Go figure. Yes, I had a father who was openly contemptuous of the superiority assumed by so many in the Northeast and the West coast towards the rest of the country—and for the Midwest in particular.

(Which makes my current disdain for the south a bit ironic, no?)

Their attitude was best espoused by their referring to Midwesterners as “the flyover people”—a glib reference to their cross-country travel. I preferred the New Yorker covers of Saul Steinberg, who created maps poking fun at New Yorkers and their self-obsession.

When I look back on it, the media's focus on New York was a natural extension of the fact they were based in New York. But as a proud citizen of the second city, one admittedly with an inferiority complex crystalized by the 1969 baseball season, I grew weary of the constant attention afforded New York.

That went for their sports franchises, too.

While grateful to have come of age after the Yankees' suffocating domination of major league baseball, a succession of teams came to dominate the national stage in my youth. The 1969 Mets were one. The early-seventies Knicks were another.

For a time, it seemed as if the moment an injured Willis Reed walked on court prior to game seven of the 1970 NBA Finals was the end all and be all of sport. This was exacerbated by the insufferable Howard Cosell, who remarked afterwards “You exemplify the very best that the human spirit can offer.”

Sigh.

No wonder I used to joke that hitting .270 in New York was like hitting .300 anywhere else.

Yes, this was all media-induced. I didn't even know any New Yorkers. But as life and my social circle expanded, I came to know many New Yorkers. To my surprise, some of them were quite affable and didn't talk about New York all the time.

Of course, others weren't. And did.

So much has changed since then. Chicago enjoys a far-higher profile than it did during my youth. They shoot movies here. TV shows are set here. Chicago even had a music scene for a time in the nineties, spearheaded by the success of the Smashing Pumpkins.

The Mekons called Chicago home. So did Wilco. Shrimp Boat, Ministry, Eleventh Dream Day, Precious Wax Drippings, My Life with the Thrill Kill Kult, the Ponys and Naked Raygun all flowered and bloomed here.

Good times. But I've digressed.

Fortunately, at this point I can see the media's New York obsession and its New York-centric coverage for what it is. I'm sure it's the same in England, where news coming out of London crowds out news originating from any place else. Ditto Japan and Tokyo. Or Mexico and Mexico City. Big trumps not-big. I get it.

And the New York versus Chicago pizza thing? The NY food critic who referred to thick crust pizza as a casserole was the funniest thing ever. I'm sure if it had been topped with crumbled foie gras sausage and a pear and white wine reduction sauce he'd have been falling all over himself.

And if New Yorkers continue to consider me and my ilk staid flyover people?

Meh. Whatever.

Better staid and flown-over than neurotically scrolling through our phones to make sure we didn't sleep on a breaking trend.

Isn't that like a felony or something?

Look. My empathy for NYC following 9/11 was absolute and unwavering. Ditto Sandy Hook and Sandy and most-recently, Ida. I don't wish that stuff on anyone.

But I still hate the Mets.

Ditto the Yankees. And the Knicks. And the Giants. And the recently-relocated Nets, who caved to their craven desire for assimilation. Or as I prefer to call it, guilt by association.

I just feel sorry for the Jets.

(Not being a hockey fan, I can't quite work up the requisite antipathy for the Rangers or Islanders.)

So. There it is. My appreciation of New York City. 

Such as it is.